About James Merriman
A brief introduction to my work, travels and perspective.
Find out moreI realised I had made a mistake the moment my hand snapped to my forehead in a well-meaning but poorly thought-out salute. To my horror, the uniformed North Korean border guard immediately stood to attention and saluted me crisply in return. I lowered my hand sheepishly, nodded an apology, and shuffled forward, crimson with embarrassment. Not the diplomatic debut I had in mind.
Before I had even stepped on North Korean soil, I was reminded that this journey would be unlike any other. My pre-tour briefing in Beijing told me what I could wear, what I could not say, and what I absolutely must not do. From there, I boarded a flight on Air Koryo – North Korea’s national airline – and descended into Pyongyang.
My guides, Mrs. Choi and Mr. Lee, greeted me with carefully rehearsed warmth. Mrs. Choi had a dry wit and a sharp eye, while Mr. Lee was more measured, opening up over meals and late-night chats. Nearby were the senior "minders" – suited, unsmiling, and silent. If my guides were the welcoming face of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea (DPRK – never, under any circumstances, “North Korea”), the minders were proof of where I was.
In the DPRK, social rituals carry weight. Pouring your own beer is frowned upon – you fill your neighbour’s glass, and they fill yours. When raising a toast, eye contact is essential. The local beer, usually Taedonggang, was surprisingly good, though the strength varied wildly. After one particularly lively evening, Mr. Lee simply shrugged and said, “Sometimes stronger, sometimes less. Depends on the day!”
Meals were as lavish as they were unexpected. Table after table of grilled meat, pickled sides, rice, soups, and more fried chicken than I thought possible. The chicken – salty, crisp, and addictive – was my runaway favourite. The famous Pyongyang cold noodles, served in chilled broth, were more divisive.
The most solemn day was my visit to the Kumsusan Palace of the Sun, where the embalmed bodies of lie in state. I was told to dress as for a funeral and surrender all electronics. From the coach park, I walked a kilometre in total silence through vast marble corridors to the tombs. There, in a ritual of deep formality, I bowed three times at each coffin, surrounded by guards and reverent stillness. Whatever your politics, it was impossible not to feel the weight of the occasion.
North Korea is a country of paradoxes – polished but unknowable, warm yet tightly controlled, full of rituals that both welcome and distance. Everything I saw felt curated, yet moments of genuine humanity still broke through.
I still think about the soldier at the airport. Maybe he laughed about the awkward foreigner who saluted him first. Maybe he did not. Either way, that brief, absurd moment set the tone for a journey like no other – one that raised more questions than it answered and left me with memories as complex as the country itself.
